


Suledin

by R_Cookie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Naruto
Genre: Author Has A Doctorate In Boredom And Procrastination, Blood Magic, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, M/M, Overpowered Character, Rebirth, Warden Inquisitor, but not really, unapologetically overpowered, you read right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-16 00:43:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16943769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Cookie/pseuds/R_Cookie
Summary: The one where the Warden is killed, and Asha'bellanar and Fen'Harel reward her for the endless trials she's had to face - but they're also kind of dicks and think they're hilarious, so the Warden wakes up in a relatively young world, as immortal as her people used to be before a certain someone slapped The Veil in place.Or: the one where Orochimaru grew up on tales of a spirit, runs into said spirit, not-bribes the spirit for knowledge and information (aka story time) and it all snowballs from there.[More tags to be added in time. Do also read the author's note in chapter 1]





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This behemoth of a story I’m foreseeing is the result of an incredible need to do anything but study. As you do. It’s also the result of becoming a die-hard fan of Blackkat’s wonderfully unashamedly, insanely rare-pairings stories, and the burning desire to write about an over-powered character. Their writings got me hooked onto the loveliness of tripping over and discovering the weirdest crossovers and pairings. So, attempting to find the same courage, I wound up with this – there’re rare pairings and odd crossovers, and then there’s this. For those primarily here because of Naruto, just a warning that this is something of a fix-it fic. I'll try to stay true to the details of the original. But I swear, trying to find a decidedly accurate timeline of the Naruto universe, or the history of characters is futile. There are going to be bits where I’m just making it up or deliberately tweaking stuff - like the fact that Orochimaru actually found what looked more like the skin of a tiny white snake in the anime, rather what you’ll read below. ANYWAY. Enough for now. DA fans, the note for you guys will be at the end!

In the Land of Fire, for over four centuries, there has always been a presence that lingered amidst the dense forests of the mountain that would come to be known as Hokage Rock. A myth that has endured and become a part of the village’s history. Legend spoke of the first Fire Daimyo being the one to discover the spirit when he and his men had sought sanctuary in the mountains. And though the story goes that the spirit came to him in the form of a woman, healing their injuries with a heavenly glow, the spirit proved to be neither good nor evil. It had offered aid to those who needed it, who _chanced_ upon it; yet, merciless retribution to those who whose hearts bore malice towards its lands.

It had a thousand different forms, some claimed it showed itself as nothing but a mist, others an ever-changing animal. There had been a time when the villagers considered it a pilgrimage; to discern the purity of a person’s soul, they had to explore the mountains for a week, and stay at the little shrine that had been built into the centre of the mountain. But the practice fell away when time and time again, those who ventured in were turned away by an inexplicable fog, leading them in circles until they discovered themselves once again at the foot of the mountain.

Some had tried to seek its aid in the long, bloody wars between the clans, but none succeeded. By the time the Senju and Uchiha formed their pact with the Fire Daimyo, establishing the first hidden village, the spirit was relegated to little more than a children’s story. And yet, though many were quick to dismiss it, one of the Daimyo’s conditions was to leave the forest of the mountain _protected_ – an unwavering law of the Land of Fire.

\---

The little boy has come by these parts more frequently in recent months, patiently, systematically going through the area for snakes. If asked, he would have told you that it was none of your concern and he’s not supposed to speak to strangers. But he is six, and newly graduated from the Academy, and the truth is that he has even less patience for pointless talk with strangers now than before his remaining parent passed on a few months ago. The _truth_ is that he had come across an unrecognisable white snake at the cemetery in the days just after his mother had been buried. Sarutobi-sensei had told him that it symbolised fortune and rebirth. Sarutobi-sensei had probably plucked those pretty words from thin air in some poor attempt to comfort him.

His family held an affinity for serpents, an affinity he cherishes as the only remaining bond he has to his deceased parents whenever he is blindsided by the gut-wrenching realisation that he is the last of his clan. He is left with his mother’s snake-summoning scroll and the legendary _kusanagi_ that had passed down the generations on his mother’s side. Orochimaru has every intention of taking over the summoning contract the moment he is able.

He cannot rid the memory of the beautiful white serpent from his mind, and it continues to bother him until he decides to look for it in his free time. It is on the thirteenth consecutive attempt, in the dead of night, at the eastern reaches of the Hokage Rock’s forested area, that the boy succeeds.

“What are you doing, da’len? That snake in your hands is very venomous.”

Orochimaru barely flinches, still careful in his cradling of the docile serpent in his palms (not _the_ snake, but he could do with more of this one’s venom). Slowly, he turns toward the faintly raspy voice. He had not sensed anybody around him.

The only thing he sees is a highly unusual deer, though no less _enchanting_ , half-concealed by the trees. Its body is white, its antlers not so much branching as they are undulating in its growth. In the moonlight, the deer _glows_.

But most arresting, perhaps, are its amethyst-coloured eyes.  

“I’ve seen you before,” he says quietly. “I thought I’ve seen flashes of white streaking about the trees before.”

In the silence that follows, the boy begins to feel silly – which is a discomforting feeling, all the more for its unfamiliarity. He’s talking to an animal. Just as he’s resigning himself to going back to his business and vehemently denying what he’s just done, the deer shimmers and rematerialises as it steps out fully into the clearing.

“And you’ve been visiting these woods more often these past few days,” the deer-turned- _lady_ says. “It isn’t safe, da’len.”

“Are you the spirit that mother told me about? The one everybody else in the village dismisses as a story?”

“I imagine so,” the spirit answers, gliding closer. “I do not think your features are all that common.”

Orochimaru cannot suppress his flinch at the remark.

The spirit descends into a crouch just inches before him. This close, the boy stares unabashedly. Her long silver hair shimmers, framing sharp, otherworldly features. He takes in the pointed tips of her ears, the peculiar colour of those eyes that sit just a touch too large on her flawless face to be _human_.

As much as he wishes he could give a snide retort to ease the sting in his chest, the only thing that escapes his mouth in a whisper is, “You’re very beautiful.”

The spirit blinks at him, surprisingly taken aback, which is _silly_ because he can hardly be the first to tell her so. But a smile spreads across her lips, and she looks even more ethereal in her simple joy.

“Thank you, da’len. Just as you are.” At that, Orochimaru scoffs. Scowling, he tips his head forward enough for his long hair to shield himself from her.

“I don’t understand why a spirit would waste her time on meaningless words,” he sulks, straddling the line between rudeness and the need to be polite to this ineffable creature.  

Elegant fingers, cool to the touch, gently part the black curtain of hair, tucking it behind his left ear. She cups his cheek in her palm, and everything about this reminds him jarringly of his mother and it _hurts_.

“Anybody who has said otherwise is a _fool_ , da’len,” the spirit says, her eyes flinty. “And you are right, a spirit wouldn’t waste her time on meaningless words. Which means I spoke true.”

“Were you the snake I saw at the cemetery? I’ve been trying to find it. I’d never seen anything like it before,” Orochimaru asks, still sounding a little petulant even to his ears.

The spirit pulls her hand away from him, crossing her arms instead, tucking them close to her body. “Yes. I… I am sorry about your mother, da’len. You see, I had not seen her around the mountain for some time, and I’d wondered if something had happened.”

“How did you know her?”

“She caught my attention years ago. She, like you, had been looking around these parts, collecting venom. She was very respectful and kept to herself, it was refreshing. I decided to lead her to a better area, where the more venomous creatures live. We did not speak. Well, _she_ would. At times. She wouldn’t speak _to_ me, but _for_ me. I believe she knew I had little desire to show myself more than I already had.”

Orochimaru gently releases the snake he’s almost forgotten about from his hands. It pays them little mind and slithers away. With nothing to do with his hands, he fiddles with the edges of his sleeves, mortified by the burning sensation building in his eyes.

“You’ve found me, da’len, as you wanted.” The spirit says softly. He is oddly grateful for the return of her touch, her fingers running through his hair. “You ought to return home. Your family will be worried. The hour is late.”

“There’s nobody to worry,” Orochimaru decidedly does _not_ sniffle. “I’m the last of my clan.”

The spirit looks so stricken. She closes her eyes and Orochimaru is fairly certain she mutters something under her breath in more of the language he does not know. He has never met another spirit before, but he always thought they’d behave less human.

The spirit rises in one graceful motion and takes his smaller hand in her unexpectedly calloused one.

“Nonetheless, da’len. You must return home to rest. Will you show me the way?”

At this, Orochimaru does pause. It takes a few moments to deliberate the implications, the potential danger of leading an unknown into the village, but concludes that if she’s been to the cemetery grounds on her own, then it’s of little difference if he just happens to be in her presence – if they’re even seen at all. Besides, she’s supposed to be a _spirit_ , a myth that’s existed for so long she came _before_ the village effectively encroached on her land.

 So, the boy watches with thinly veiled wonder as the spirit shapeshifts once more, and finds himself perched atop the deer’s back, small fingers gripping soft, white hair. Once they emerge at the base of the mountain, right where Konoha’s walls merge with the rocky surface, Orochimaru silently guides the deer to the old, modest home left to him. The deer sticks to the shadows and moves on silent hooves, letting the little boy lead her to the house that sits on the outer limits of Konoha. 

Orochimaru drifts to sleep in the early hours of the morning. And it occurs to him, only then, that he has little idea how to address the spirit.

\---

In the immediate days following the encounter, Orochimaru is frustratingly busy either with team trainings, _infuriatingly_ trivial D-rank missions, or passing out from the exhaustion of dealing with his ridiculous teammates. It is another week before he finally has the rare afternoon off.

Normally, the little boy would avoid the marketplace at all costs, unless it was to stock up on essentials. And even then, it was always like a mission to him – as efficient a trip as humanly possible. Why subject himself to the suspicious stares and whispers of the adults or the mockery of other children? He might be little over six, but he was a _prodigy_ and he could hear and see them just fine.

Yet, the afternoon sees him tugging on his favourite dark green yukata, bracing himself as he makes a beeline for the sweets shop he’s only ever visited with his mother. It is one of the few stalls whose owners were wonderfully indiscriminate with their grumpiness. He orders his favourite dango as a gift for the spirit, believing it couldn’t hurt to present her with something, an _offering_. Perhaps she’ll be more inclined to answer his questions.

He makes his way to Hokage Rock, then up the trail leading to the top of the mountain. Instead of following it all the way, Orochimaru steps off the path and takes to the trees. He’s careful of the small box of sweets in his hand as he leaps off branches, heading to the same eastern part of the forest.

A small curl of relief blooms in his belly when he spots a smallish, white snake hanging lazily from the tree branches. Amethyst eyes turn towards the new arrival, and it jerks its head in a deliberate nod. The serpent lowers itself to the forest floor, shifting forms before its body even hits the ground.

“Hello, da’len. I’d expected your visit before today,” she says pleasantly.

Orochimaru scowls lightly. “I wanted to, but I had to train with my team, and my teammates are _annoying_ – ”

“Peace, da’len,” the spirit says, amusement warming her voice.

“What does that mean?” the boy blurts out.

“Ah, the questions begin,” the spirit laughs. Her smile sharpens, but he doesn’t think it bodes ill.

“I – I also wish to know how I might address you,” he quickly throws in, a little more meekly.

The spirit hums, narrowing her eyes at him, though the smile remains on her lips. “You may call me Misuin. And what is your name?”

“Orochimaru, Misuin- _sama_ ,” he offers up the small box in his hands, speaking the spirit’s name with care. “And I brought these for you.”

“What is this?” she accepts the box, lifting the lid gently.

“Anko dango,” he answers. “They’re my favourite.”

Misuin blinks at him, then bursts into laughter, light and beautiful. The sound lifts _something_ in his chest, and he cannot hold back an answering grin. Just as sharp as her smile had been.

“A bribe for your endless questions, da’len?”

Orochimaru shuffles his feet, something about her presence easing the usual poise he held himself with. “Perhaps?”

Misuin giggles, then reaches for him to run a hand through his hair. “Come along, _little one_. Let us go somewhere more comfortable before you ask your questions.”

“You’ll answer them?” Orochimaru asks eagerly, hastening after her. He is _excited_ for the first time in so long.

“Well, you may ask, and I _may_ answer, da’len.”

   ---

She leads them up one of the tallest trees, lithely _climbing_ up rather than leaping with chakra as Orochimaru must. Finally, on one of the highest branches sturdy enough to support their weight, she perches on it, patting the spot beside her. When the boy settles down and lifts his gaze, the view is breath-taking.

“Yes,” she hums, amused at his wide eyes. “Quite the view of the village, no? Tis where I come to plot.”

Orochimaru whips his gaze to her. Her sly grin throws him off. The spirit leans a little closer to tap him lightly on the nose, and Orochimaru lets out the most undignified squeak. Nobody has ever _dared_.

“I jest, da’len. The truth is I could not care less to plot,” she says airily, focus already shifting back to the box. “Now, tell me, what is this I’m about to try?”

Orochimaru files that remark away, fully intent on circling back to it.

“It’s sweet red bean paste topping small rice flour dumplings. They’re chewy.”

He hesitantly accepts the two sticks she holds out to him.

“You said they’re your favourite, yes? So, let us share them,” Misuin says, reaching for one of the two sticks that remain in the box.

They lapse into silence as they munch away. From the way her expression shifts from curious to surprised, Orochimaru assumes she finds the treat at least satisfactory. If he’s honest, he’s thankful for the silence – it gives him time to sort out the questions he’s all but fidgeting with the need to ask.

“Thank you for the _offering_ , da’len,” Misuin finally breaks the silence. “Alright, you have questions – ”

“Are you really a spirit? Because I always thought they’d seem more _detached_ , less human, but then you have non-human features… What language is that, when you keep calling me ‘da’len’? Why have so few people ever seen you?”

Misuin stares at him and purses her lips together, twisting them to one side. “I can really only answer that last question. And it’s easy enough – because I’m _tired_ , and if they knew more about me, actually interacted with me, I would have no peace.”

Unsatisfied, Orochimaru scowls a little at her. “Do you mean harm to the village? Would you harm _my_ village?”

Misuin’s expression softens. “As long as they do nothing to _me_ , I would rather have as little to do with you humans as possible, da’len. I promise.”

“Then, if I swear on my mother’s grave that I will not speak a word about you and what you tell me, or do anything to draw attention to you, will you be able to answer me properly?”

Misuin raises her brows, looking, _really_ looking at him. Orochimaru tries to show his sincerity as best he knows how. He knows he’s six, and his most serious expression may seem more petulant than something to take seriously, but…

“I appreciated your mother’s company, I did,” she says softly, thoughtfully. “You are young yet, da’len. But… we shall see. There are simply some things I find difficult to speak of. As any person does. For now, alright, I’ll accept your oath.”

Misuin shifts on her perch to face him fully.

“I am not a spirit. In an unwanted twist, _if_ I had made myself known and had a following, I imagine I would be what this world considered a goddess. I am very much _alive_ , da’len. Not a spirit or ghost. But this was not my world. I was killed in mine, and the ones who simply came before, powerful beings my people used to worship in ages past, brought me here. I do not know why, but in the many years since, I’ve concluded they thought themselves clever. Or if I know Asha’bellanar and Fen’Harel but at all, they thought they would gift me a _boon_ but couldn’t resist mischief; that it would be amusing for me to be what they were to my people.”

Orochimaru takes in the information rapidly, barely daring to breathe. “Who – where – what do you mean by ‘my people’?”

“You cannot stop _breathing_ , da’len,” she chuckles at his singular focus. “I was, in Thedas, an elf. Though, having come here, I believe they brought me back as one that would have existed in the time of Elvhenan – and no, I will not elaborate on what Elvhenan is. Not today. All that matters is that my people were once immortal.”

“Why did your gods gift _you_ a boon? You must have been of importance.”

“Mostly against my will, but yes. I had many titles, da’len. Commander of the Grey, the Herald of Andraste, the Hero of Ferelden… Too many wars, too many battles, too many dead, too many to save, too many things I _had_ to do,” she shakes her head. “And I was – I _am_ weary.”

Orochimaru fiddles with his hair absently. “The stories about your presence have supposedly existed for almost four hundred years – ”

Misuin lets out a hoarse laugh. “Mythal preserve me, they really gave me immortality. I did not quite count the years, da’len. I rarely ventured into the village once it was formed. I am not unaccustomed to living in the wilds, and what offerings the kind souls used to leave at the small shrine were enough to get me started.”

“You would have lived through the clan wars, the fight between Uchiha Madara and Senju Hashirama, the unleashing of the _kyuubi_ – ”

“Was the kyuubi a very large, very angry, orange fox?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Orochimaru fairly whines in exasperation. “And not once did you consider intervening? Was it not dangerous?”

“Da’len,” Misuin says, all humour abandoned. “I used to be powerful, but the _centuries_ have been kind and that power has only grown. I would have been able to protect myself. But above all, this is not my world, not my people, and none of my concern as I’ve said. I simply wished to be left alone. I’d earned my respite.”

Orochimaru isn’t a social creature; he, too, would usually rather be left to his own devices. But even so, he is _alone_ now that his family is gone, in a village that is suspicious and unkind to things, to _people_ who are different. He has, at least, his sensei, and his teammates, even if he would not readily call them ‘friends’ nor think them anything but annoying.

“Are you not lonely?” He finds himself asking quietly. A part of him hopes the question is lost to the wind, but –

Misuin gives him a soft smile, “Well… not any longer, da’len. Not now that I’ll have you around, I imagine?”

\---

Things simply continue from there. It goes from a not-bribe of different sweets for every round of questions Orochimaru makes the time for, to something that the boy does because the expressions on the otherwise reserved-looking Misuin never fail to entertain him.

For the _nerikiri_ , delicate and meticulously beautiful in its various shapes, Orochimaru learns that she’s a _mage_ , capable of using magic, though she says it works differently here, less dangerously. She tells him that where she’d come from, her powers depended on her ability to channel energy from something called the _Fade,_ and to avoid demonic possession. (Orochimaru thinks magic sounds a lot like ninjutsu. Without the demon risk.)  Mages, she says, were treated with as much scorn and wariness, if not more, as her people were. He gets a very abbreviated history lesson about elves, humans, _dwarves_ and something called _qunari,_ and he interrupts more than once, unable to control his facial expressions given how made-up it all sounds. Misuin takes it with good enough humour, though she gives up at one point to simply grab his hand to gently prod the tip of one ear. “It’s entirely real, da’len. Try to be a child for once and channel your imagination.”

For the _sakuramochi_ he presents, Orochimaru gets a giggle at the leaves used, and an unfairly brief summary of the types of magic she can use. Misuin tells him that she was a little different, that the first path she had chosen had been one that was deeply frowned upon. She refuses to tell him why, precisely, only that it has to do with the power of blood, and that _perhaps_ she shall tell him when he is older. She does tell him that she had chosen it because it had offered the greatest power to do her duty, that as a _Warden_ , she had embraced the way her Order had accepted ruthlessness – efficiency over judgment. Particularly given the situation they had found themselves in when she had been forced to join the Order.

For the sizeable bag of _konpeito_ Orochimaru splurges on, the boy is privy to Misuin descending on the little clumps of colourful balls of sugar like a fiend. She sheepishly tells him that she never had such access to sugar, despite the obvious sweet tooth she has. She carries on a little from the previous visit, and Orochimaru learns that she hasn’t been entirely idle these past four hundred or so years. That she’s taken the wealth of time and freedom she found herself with to fine-tune the numerous other specialisations she had picked up in her travels – that it was why she could shapeshift so easily, why she could heal. She tells him that the choice she had made following that suspicious and frustratingly intriguing blood-related specialisation, was to become a battlemage. Unlike the vast majority of mages, she does not rely on a staff to focus her power; she can do so just as easily with a blade, and that allows her to fight in close quarters.

At some point, it becomes an exchange of information.

It begins with her asking what the ‘sama’ that he insists on tagging behind her name means. So, Orochimaru explains the different types of honorifics. He is asked about his team, and what a ‘genin’ is; and he obediently explains the hierarchy of shinobi. He finds himself in something of a chokehold, only to realise it’s a crushing _hug_ , when he explains that he turned seven a little while ago, and he’s gone on missions, and yes, he’s made his first kill. Misuin hisses something about child-soldiers and bloody _shems_ , and if it weren’t for the proverbial storm cloud looming over her, Orochimaru would’ve asked what that word meant. Elvish is a peculiar sounding language, he’s decided, but pretty nonetheless.

It does not escape his notice, _how could it_ , that Misuin was more or less content to ramble away, answering whatever questions she chooses to answer, until her voice tapers off and her face gradually shutters away all emotion. He’s polite enough not to comment on it, but he’s fairly certain that she remembers too clearly, and four hundred years with just one’s own overly burdened mind does nothing good.

It takes over a year of these visits, of her offering only a weak smile and a ruffling of his hair in farewell, for Orochimaru to permit himself to give her  _tiny_ , one-armed hugs before he takes his leave.

(He does not flee, shut up.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it to the end, I’m both grateful and impressed. For the DA fans, again, major artistic liberties are going to be taken for the Warden’s backstory. Firstly, I know that if you’re a mage-elf, you’re always going to have a circle of magi beginning. Well, not for this character! (Dalish-mage, people) Secondly, I am one of those who frankly found the Inquisitor being a completely new character with zero leadership experience both bewildering and infuriating. So, you might’ve caught the reference in the story, but yes, for the sake of this story, the Warden was also the Inquisitor. There’ll be other inconsistencies with canon, and if you note them, they’re probably deliberate on my part. Just an FYI. And remember, one of the primary reasons for this ridiculous story is that I wanted to roll with an overpowered character – and the first thing that popped up was how overpowered my mage was in DA:O. And I just went to town with this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: If it's not been said enough, DragonAgeWikia and NarutoWikia are godsent. Just as a disclaimer, some of the more explanation-heavy bits may be quoted in full or in part (mostly the latter) from these sites. Though, it's paraphrased for the most part.
> 
> A/N 2: "Project Elvhen" by FenxShiral here on AO3 is friggin BOSS.
> 
> A/N 3: There's a blend of Japanese terminology and English translations, and it's always a difficult decision for me to make when there are multiple languages bouncing about the story, so I apologise in advance if it makes little sense how I decide when to use the Japanese term over the English equivalent. Half the time I don't even know/remember myself. I hope you just turn a blind eye/get accustomed to it and it isn't too disruptive.

“Did you know there’s a little storm cloud hovering over your head?”

Orochimaru does not dignify that remark with an answer. He continues, as he has for the past twenty minutes, to hurl as many senbon as he can at the crude imitation of Jiraiya pinned to a tree.

“Best be careful, da’len, lest your hair gets wet.”

Misuin has hardly been helping his ~~mood~~ _concentration_ since she’d joined him about five minutes ago. The she-elf had taken one look at the peculiar looking stuffed doll held in place by a dagger and the numerous long needles sticking out of its head, and promptly smirked. Then she’d sprawled indolently on a branch, content to drop these pointless comments on him.

Orochimaru glares at the stupid grin he’s foolishly drawn on the stuffed doll and curses the unintentional likeness to its _inspiration_. The mere thought of the moronic, white-haired, loudmouth _jerk_ makes his blood boil. With a particularly vicious snarl, the boy goes straight for a kunai. He darts forward to the tree and takes a savage stab at the steadily disintegrating doll.

Just as he’s taking a breath, rearing to simply tear it apart once and for all with his bare hands, he feels a hot, damp breath puff against his nape. He’s unceremoniously lifted by the back of his kimono. Like an errant pup, Orochimaru is gently pulled away from the contained destruction.

The massive white wolf that Misuin had shifted into drops to the ground, settling the boy between her paws. She rests her heavy head on his lap, pinning him in place.

“Who was that doll supposed to be, da’len?”

“Jiraiya,” he grumbles under his breath.

“Your teammate?” The boy has mentioned the name before, along with a _Tsuna-_ something. “What did he do?”

“He’s a pervert, and it’s disrupting every training. He’s a waste of _air_ ,” Orochimaru hisses angrily.

He feels the growling before he hears it. Orochimaru blinks at the way the wolf’s ears are pulled low and to the side, Misuin’s snout wrinkled and snarling.

“A ‘pervert’? What did he do to you?”

Slowly, Orochimaru reaches out to lightly sooth the fur between her ears. “He did nothing to me. Tsunade’s breasts have been developing, and Jiraiya’s noticed. He keeps trying to hit on her.” The clinical, emotionless observation about his teammate’s body startles Misuin almost comically, her ire stumbling into wide-eyed, slack-jawed surprise. He is _nine_ and she had expected more blushing and brashness – but she ought to have known better.

“Tsunade handles it, and sensei _knows_ , but he just sighs,” Orochimaru picks up where he left off. “And when I snap, Tsunade yells at _me_ for thinking she can’t handle the moron on her own, and then the _jerk_ mocks me and tells me not to be _jealous_ and that I look enough like a girl that at some point someone will surely hit on me too – ”

The child doesn’t realise that in his growing agitation, his small hands have gone from gently patting Misuin’s fur to almost painfully kneading her cheeks. That is, until a wet nose nudges his chin. Orochimaru freezes, immediately tucking his hands close to his chest. He mumbles a hasty apology.

Misuin huffs, butting her snout at his fists until the boy resumes his ministrations more sedately.

“Children have a gift for cruelty that can be astonishing, da’len, that much I’ve always lamented,” she says. “Though, I do not know what your sensei thinks he’s doing.”

Orochimaru fiddles with the soft fur of Misuin’s ears. Jiraiya is a pain in the neck, and Tsunade is so defensive, but they are his teammates and deep in his heart he has regrettably hoped that they would become part of his nest. It has been three years, and though their tolerance for each other has grown, he still feels the divide. He knows they still cannot understand, still dislike his hunger for knowledge and his sense of detachment. He knows that Jiraiya’s stupid barbs were impulsive and probably hurled without realising that he almost always manages to find the right buttons not so much to push, as to _stab_. Tsunade never joins Jiraiya in the insults, but her judgment is often tiresome and palpable for all that she is more accepting of his making up one-third of their team. With a heavy sigh, Orochimaru slumps forward to bury his face in the thick fur.

“If they ever grew to have any sense at all, you would have to fend off an unending line of hopeful partners when the time comes. But the world is plagued by more than its fair share of idiots, wilfully blind and ignorant idiots at that. And I know you do not believe these compliments yet, so I shall say nothing more than that you must realise that your unique features will give you an enviable advantage if nothing else, da’len.”

Orochimaru makes a soft, inquisitive sound. It is muffled against the fur, but Misuin hears it just fine.

“Do you not know the great many stupid things humans do in the face of beauty? If you will not accept it, then at least _use_ it.”

“Mother had taught me a little,” Orochimaru concedes petulantly. “The ways of the kunoichi. She’d said there was no shame in maximising all that our clan possessed.”

“I told you I’d liked your mother,” Misuin croons. “Accept the wisdom endorsed by a spirit almost five hundred years old, lethallin.”

“You’re not a spirit, you’re just _old_ , and what does that _mean_?”

Misuin nips the boy’s stomach where her snout had wound up smushed against in his dramatic collapsing embrace. Cheeky.

“ _Lethallin_. It is an endearment – for one you’re familiar with,” she answers. “Now, enough about your annoying teammate, tell me what new things you’ve learnt, da’len.”

The boy readily obliges, losing himself to his excited account of an ancient-looking, dodgy ninjutsu scroll he had discovered on a mission.

 

\---

 

He has rarely felt this way. A near constant swell of pride and happiness whenever he feels the light thudding of the scabbard by his side. He still has some growing to do before he can comfortably carry it around, but that is beside the point.

He does not bother to make his footfalls known, far too excited to remember. He shunshins into the usual clearing, only stumbling because of the loud hiss that escapes the startled white snake that had been napping on the branch.

“Misuin-sama!”

The elf scowls at his eager face, disgruntled and flustered by the rude awakening.

“Sensei finally allowed me to train with Kusanagi and not just with the bokken,” Orochimaru says.

Misuin’s brows rise a little, irritation falling away at the unfamiliar excitement displayed so obviously on the child’s usually shuttered demeanour.

“That sword is Kusanagi, I presume?” she gestures lightly at what looks like a longsword, though it is on the shorter end of the scale.

Orochimaru nods, reverently removing the sword from his side, scabbard and all, to present to her. “It is a legendary sword passed down from my mother’s family.”

Misuin’s expression softens, and she smiles at the enthusiasm the boy finally tries to rein in. His mother. Of course. With equal care, she accepts the sword from him. The cross guard catches her eye, the masterfully worked metal resembling the scales of a snake.

“Will you tell me about Kusanagi?”

“Mother told me that the god, Susanoo, discovered Kusanagi when he slew the eight-headed serpent, Yamata-no-Orochi. It was eventually passed down to the legendary warrior, Yamato Takeru. Supposedly, he was killed in a fight when he went against his wife’s advice to bring Kusanagi with him. So, Kusanagi remained in his wife’s possession and passed down the generations.”

She returns the blade to Orochimaru, hilt first.

“Tis a fine legend. Thank you,” Misuin says, chucking the boy’s chin gently.

“Will you wait for me at the top of our tree? I need a moment to collect something I wish to show you in return.”

\---

Orochimaru hasn’t been staring out at his village long, the view unfailingly staggering even after all these years, before he hears the rustling of leaves beneath him. Misuin gracefully scales the tree and joins him with something strapped to her back. She returns the small smile he offers her.

He watches curiously as she brings around whatever it was that had been slung across her chest. The hilt is a giveaway, but everything else about the sword Misuin produces is unlike anything he has seen before – he senses _something_ emanating from the blade, now that it has his attention.

A faint thrumming.

“This,” she says, looking down almost lovingly at the sword resting in both her hands. “is _Keikai_.”

“Vigilance,” Orochimaru echoes softly under his breath.

“This blade was crafted in a time of war by the best weaponsmith I had ever had the honour of knowing. A challenge, Wade had proclaimed, when I presented him with the bones of an ancient dragon and a fresh dragon egg. It has been a most reliable companion.”

The sword resembles a kabutowari with a gleaming golden-copper sheen, its cross guard shaped like the unfurling spikes on the back of a curled dragon. It is beautiful and terrifying and Orochimaru’s fingers twitch with the desire to _touch_.

“I still scarcely believe it, but Keikai was _stolen_ from my bloody stronghold by the Antivan Crows – an infamous House of assassins, thieves and spies. The suicidal _courage_ of such an action… Stealing the Warden-Commander’s equally notorious sword,” Misuin scoffs, expression darkening. “But this blade has a life of its own, and we are bound by the blood spilled between us. Nothing could have stopped me from hunting it back.”

“It is sentient?”

“No,” Misuin chuckles. “Not quite, but it is alive. In a manner of speaking. We understand each other.”

Catching the look in his golden eyes, Misuin doesn’t bother hiding the grin that dances along her lips. She obliges his curiosity, presenting Keikai to the boy.

Orochimaru startles at the gesture. His hands hover inches above the sword, but Misuin looks him in the eye and simply smiles.

He whispers his thanks, one hand coming to grip the handle, the other skimming the surface of the blade. Just as he had felt, the thrumming is now simply more pronounced, as if the sword were trembling from eagerness, curious to know the stranger its mistress has permitted to interact with it in a fashion that does not end in bloodshed.

Slender fingers suddenly rest atop his own. Orochimaru looks up into unexpectedly warm eyes.

“Though I’m certain your sensei is more than capable… if you’d like, I would be willing to teach you what I know of fighting with swords such as ours.”

Orochimaru cannot find it in himself to care about the way his cheeks bloom _pink_ , he is too busy being overwhelmingly grateful. No jeering, no mocking his damnable thirst for knowledge; this – this _goddess_ , for that is what she is no matter how she denies it, indulges him, and Orochimaru –

“ _Thank you.”_

Misuin’s smile reaches her eyes.

Beneath his fingers, Keikai grows warm.

\---

 

When Orochimaru and his team are promoted to jounin, they are thirteen.

It is a promotion that has been delayed by Sarutobi-sensei at his insistence that there was no need to demand so much of a child, not when there isn’t a war looming over their heads crying for such a necessity. Misuin agrees, and she tells Orochimaru just so, serenely weathering what he maintains is not a pout. (It very much is.)

All the same, Orochimaru is thirteen when he becomes a jounin, and he comes to her in a green flak jacket over a navy kimono shirt, hitai-ate proudly worn. Misuin beams at him, her smile so embarrassingly wide that Orochimaru drops his gaze to the vague area of his left foot, hair sliding forward to shield his blush.

She wraps him up in a hug, lets him press his face into the soft material of the tunic she has taken to wearing ever since he gifted it to her.

Together, they make their way to their usual perch.

She asks him to tell her everything about the jounin nomination, about the promotion ceremony, about his plans to celebrate with his team. Orochimaru relaxes into a slouch, content to let her fiddle with the long bangs that frame his face, braiding them back in the same way she often wears hers. He tells her about Sarutobi-sensei finally nominating Team Hiruzen, and his unquestioning support as Sandaime. He tells her of how Jiraiya and Tsunade had yanked him into a group hug, of the team dinner they agreed to meet up for, of the pride in sensei’s eyes.

To his surprise, Misuin asks him what he would like as a gift. It is a simple question, no qualifications, no conditions. As ever, it throws him off balance.

And so he requests, just as simply, “A secret.”

Misuin laughs brightly, gives him a tiny smirk. “Isn’t everything you know about me a secret? Shall I tell you what my favourite colour is?”

Orochimaru scowls, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be obtuse.”

She bites back her grin, but dares as no other would to gently poke his cheek.

“Don’t pout, da’len.”

He bats away her hand, pout _firmly_ in place.

“I shall give you one and a half,” Misuin says.

Orochimaru turns around to face her, shuffling halfway onto her lap before he remembers himself. And though he’s just about too grown to fit comfortably, Misuin pulls him in nonetheless.

“Oh, I remember when this was easier, like hauling a large sack of potatoes,” she huffs. “Now you’re like a boulder.”

Orochimaru puffs up in indignation and it takes valiant effort to swallow her mirth.

He quickly deflates when she clears her throat.

“The half,” she begins. “is the meaning behind the name ‘Misuin’. From the elvish words _mis_ and _suina_ , it roughly translates to ‘the blade that brings silence’. It was given to me by Asha’bellanar just after the I ended the Fifth Blight. And it seemed to hold true in the years that followed, I suppose. You remember me speaking of her, yes?”

“The woman possessed by your goddess, Mythal, in exchange for her aid?”

“Yes,” Misuin replies. “As for the _full_ secret … I shall tell you my soul name, my _sal’melin_ , the one gifted to me at birth and which was only ever used by my clansmen.”

She cannot resist a dramatic pause, clinging onto her grave expression by a thread when the boy waits with bated breath. Some things do not change. She wonders how much longer she may push the limits of the manners and formalities he affords her, dwindling as they have been over the years of familiarity. She wonders whether the day may soon come when he’d simply snap at her in impatience, rather than risk going blue in the face from anticipation. A part of her looks forward to it.

Taking pity on her da’len, Misuin leans in to whisper, “ _Fen’nas_.”

Her eyes slip close, the word, _the name_ feeling strange on her lips. It has been more than four hundred years since she’s last heard it.

“One with the soul of a wolf.”

Misuin meets Orochimaru’s solemn eyes. “From the moment I was conscripted, everybody would refer to me by my clan name, Mahariel. It was only after the Blight and my accepting Asha’bellanar’s naming that some would call me ‘Misuin’. In a way, it might have been less a name and more an epithet.”

“Which do you prefer?” the boy asks her. It is a thoughtful question she is proud to hear him ask.

“I think,” Misuin says carefully, wrapping her arms around him, sighing at the way he burrows into her warmth. “I would not be opposed to hearing my sal’melin from you.”

She catches his momentary stillness before he relaxes once more. “I do not know if I’ve earned that privilege yet,” she hears him mumble into her shoulder.

Warmth unfurls in her chest and she hugs him tighter, nuzzles her cheek against silky raven hair.

“I know you will one day,” she says softly. “And I shall eagerly await it.”

Her da’len. _Hers._

She knows she’d referred to the boy as such in her mind.

…

Mythal preserve her, but it feels right and _whole_.

 

\---

 

If anybody were to ask, not that anybody _would_ , she is surprised it has taken this long for him to bring up the topic.

“The blood-related specialisation, hmm?” Misuin murmurs. “What happened, da’len? I do not think you’re asking this simply for the knowledge.”

The young man is distracted, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeves, fingers twitching subtly. She knows him, watched him grow – his tells are all but obvious now.

“You know my… _passion_ for collecting techniques. Would learn them all if could,” he breaks his silence. “You know I would gladly dedicate myself to researching them all if I could.”

It is thoroughly unlike him to state the obvious.

“I have endured the things that have been said about my appearance, about my affinity for serpents, about the way I prefer my own company.”

‘Anti-social’ is what Misuin thinks, and Orochimaru catches her pointed look. He rolls his eyes.

“But now… now that I’ve expressed clear interest in the so-called forbidden techniques, I have been warned about the consequences of researching them. Yet, to _use_ them is not necessarily illegal. And I just wished to know how you handled – ”

“How I handled choosing a specialisation that was frowned upon,” Misuin finishes. Orochimaru nods.

“Alright,” she sighs. “I suppose now would be as good a time as any for this.”

Misuin makes herself comfortable against the trunk of their tree. “Let me begin by confessing that the specialisation wasn’t so much frowned upon as it was something I would have been hunted and killed on sight for by the Templars. Yes, the military arm of the dominant religious order of Thedas I’d mentioned before. Any mage who used blood magic was deemed a maleficarum, and it is only because I was a Warden that they could not officially act against me. Among the Dalish, my people, however, it was only considered taboo and something to be ostracised for.

“Power corrupts, da’len. I will acknowledge that. And blood magic offers tremendous power. It has been used for terrible things. The humans once used it to force my ancestors into slavery, twisting their blood, corrupting their will; it can make blood sacrifices out of its victims, willing or not – the greater the pain suffered, the greater the power gained by the castor. Blood magic promises impossible things, and it is far too easy to think you will always be able to pay the price demanded.”

She pauses, grimacing.

“But I believe there is always a _choice_. And it is the choices the user makes that matters most – in acquiring these ‘forbidden’ skills, in using these ‘forbidden’ powers. Blood magic is a magic just like any other. I’ll concede that the stakes are higher, the temptation for abuse greater. But that does not mean a blood mage should be killed indiscriminately. I chose it because we were at war, and because my country was running out of time. _Thedas_ did not have the luxury of waiting for me to build my power slowly with less sinister branches of magic, not if it wanted the Blight to be stopped before it could gain full momentum.”

Misuin looks up at Orochimaru’s wide-eyed attention. She scrounges up a weak smile.

“What do you hold dear, lethallin?”  

Orochimaru blinks owlishly. She would giggle were it any other circumstance, but as it is, Misuin reaches out to brush the back of her fingers across his pale cheek.

“Humour me.”

Her da’len takes a deep breath, glancing away in thought.

“Misuin-sama,” he eventually replies, meeting her gaze resolutely. She closes her eyes. “Konoha, Sarutobi-sensei, Tsunade and Jiraiya-baka.”

“Likewise, at the time, I cared only to ensure that my clan survived the Blight, that we would still have a home in Ferelden. But even as desperate as I was, as we all were, there were lines I could not bring myself to cross. Only blood which I bled, I swore to myself, or from a volunteer, and never at the cost another’s life unless it was in self-defence. These lines are what you must decide for yourself, da’len.”

“We are ruthless, you and I,” Misuin takes his hand in hers. “I have sent thousands of men to their deaths, good men who expected me to somehow protect them all – just so several thousand other soldiers and civilians somewhere else could live. I have bled my enemies in _waves_ , catching myself feeling grateful that they chose to attack me in such numbers because it meant I had an easy source of power. It would be simple, da’len, to lose ourselves. To end up hurting the very people, the very things we thought we never would.

“Be careful, da’len, that is all. Indulge your interests, but have a care that you do not lose yourself along the way.”

Orochimaru gives her hand a small squeeze. “And what if those boundaries are respected, but even theoretical research is enough to be illegal?”

Misuin pinches the bridge of her nose with her free hand, shoulders twitching under suppressed laughter.

“ _Dirthara-ma_ ,” she mutters in exasperation.

“Then don’t get _caught_.”

 

\---

 

Perhaps it is the curse of immortality, Misuin isn’t entirely certain, but time passes unnaturally fast in her seclusion. Orochimaru continues his visits, and she trains him when time allows, but ever since making jounin, the ~~boy~~ young man has grown busier. Where missions and team trainings kept him occupied for a few weeks at most, his missions now take him away from the village for months at a time.

In the spring of his twenty-second year, Orochimaru pays her a visit and casually delivers pieces of news about his village.

There have been a number of new arrivals, new citizens hailing from Uzushio, a village Konoha has strong ties to as a result of the Shodaime and Nidaime’s clan. An eight-year-old girl by the name of Uzumaki Kushina catches Orochimaru’s attention in particular. The new jinchuriki, he tells Misuin.

He smirks at her confused frown but explains.

And Misuin remembers, for the first time in centuries, the cold chill of fear as it sweeps through her.

In all the years Orochimaru has known her, he has never seen her pale so quickly, never heard her breathing grow so rapid and shallow. It is more than enough to wipe all amusement from him.

“Misuin-sama?”

“How,” she tries to speak through gritted teeth, struggling to calm the wild beating of her heart. “How long has this _practice_ been going on?”

“Jinchuriki have only been created over the last three decades. But attempts at utilising their powers existed long before that,” Orochimaru says, cautiously placing a hand on her back.

He does not expect her to whirl around, eyes _glowing white-blue_. He certainly does not expect to be knocked back by an invisible force.

“ _Fools_! Arrogant, conceited _humans_!”

Orochimaru stares at her, a faint tremor running through him. Never has he witnessed Misuin lose her composure, never has he felt more than a fraction of the power he knows resides in her. Until now. The air crackles around them and the killing intent rolling off her is almost suffocating. He is certain that there would be a crater where they stand if she wasn’t still controlling her outburst.

“I do not understand,” he says calmly, unflinching at the sight of her. Truth be told, he revels in this display. “Are you afraid?”

Misuin growls. “No, _da’len_. I am not afraid. I could and would _put it down_ if I had to. But I worry for _you._ That is a walking _time bomb_ of an _abomination_ wandering about your village.”

Orochimaru knows that people often treat the jinchuriki with revulsion or wariness, if not outright hatred, but he had not expected it from Misuin. He treated the host like any other fascinating puzzle, a power to be studied and possibly harnessed – Misuin typically shared this objective, calculative outlook.

He picks himself off the ground, braces himself against the oppressive weight of her anger, and closes the distance between them.

“As long as the seal holds, there seems to be little risk of an uncontrolled outcome,” Orochimaru remarks calmly. Hesitantly, he leaks his chakra a little, enough for it to gently wind itself around the jagged, prickly presence of Misuin’s magic.

“From experience, da’len, rarely has there ever been any good that came of sharing a body with a spirit – benevolent or malevolent. And _forcing_ an angry spirit into a body is the most resoundingly stupid method of possession I have ever heard of.”

“The seals keep the beast restrained and as a separate entity within the host,” Orochimaru explains, quickly catching onto Misuin’s line of thought.

“And what happens when the host inevitably seeks to use the power of the spirit?”

“Tell me what you’ve seen,” Orochimaru all but pleads.

The glow of Misuin’s eyes slowly fade, familiar amethyst gradually returning. It is a long moment before she sighs explosively, the fight going out of her even if her scowl remains.

“In my world, spirits were intelligent creatures, but they lacked everything that made them mortal. They emulated the emotions and desires of the mortals they interacted with but were fundamentally incapable of comprehending our world. Without a host, they usually went mad with shock if they crossed over, mutating into violent, destructive spirits. When they did attach themselves to something from the mortal world, it was done with consent. The danger lies in the melding of the spirit with the soul of its host and its almost infantile comprehension of the world around them.

“I knew a man, a fellow Warden I’d recruited, who accepted a spirit into his body. Poisoned by the anger of his host at the mistreatment and oppression of mages, the spirit of Justice warped into the force of Vengeance. He lost control to it, and what began as an inspiring determination to help those in need, became an all-consuming delusion for martyrdom. At the height of instability in Kirkwall, he blew up the Chantry, the most important place of worship in the city, killing everybody in it. The Templars retaliated and the entire city plunged into a bloody rebellion.”

Misuin grows quiet, eyes shuttered and unseeing.

“This story… tis not even a description of what happens when a _demon_ , a malevolent spirit, is naively allowed to possess a mortal. A jinchuriki – your people have forced an angry, immensely powerful spirit into the body of a _child_. You’ve taken away its freedom, allowed that rage to build up over the past decades – ” She cuts herself off with a snarl.

“The tailed beasts are living constructs of pure chakra that date back centuries,” Orochimaru says quietly. “Perhaps they are different from the spirits of your world, Misuin-sama. Perhaps they are actually sapient and not just sentient – ”

Misuin barks out a laugh. “Would that not be worse? To be forcibly imprisoned, against your express wishes by tiny, squabbling creatures just so they could exploit your power when you would rather be left alone?”

Orochimaru looks at her thoughtfully. Misuin huffs, averting her gaze.

“It would mean they could, _possibly,_ be reasoned with.”

Misuin’s eyes soften, the lines of her body slumping. Looking at him from beneath her lashes, she offers a small, rueful smile.

“Has anybody bothered to do so?”

Orochimaru returns her smile. The answer is a resounding no, of course. Humanity has been mired in their prejudice against the tailed beasts for too long.

“Be careful, _vhenan_. Plot away as you do. But be careful. You say the seals have held, but I’m sure it is all too easy for both of us to imagine that were we in its place, the slightest slip would be enough for us to do anything to try and escape.”

“Vhenan?” The young man repeats.

“Of course, that is what you focus on,” Misuin chuckles, finally genuine and a little lighter. “Another time, da’len. That is enough excitement for one day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 4: I never thought I'd find myself defending/explaining the use of blood magic, because I swear that to this day, watching what happened to Leandra Amell in DA2 remains one of the most traumatic and heart-wrenching series of quests I've encountered. Following the blood trail in All That Remains? Where tf are my tissues? Youtube/Play it if you want your heart crushed, and your brain short-circuiting. 
> 
> A/N 5: Who caught the reference to Garrus' line from Mass Effect 3 about the ruthless calculus of war? Was so tempted. So. Tempted. 
> 
> A/N 6: It is RIDICULOUS (yes, full caps, dammit!) that Vigilance was stolen from right under your nose by the bloody Antivan Crows after Awakening. RIDICULOUS.


End file.
